


it's the price we pay (when it comes to love)

by teatin



Category: DCU, Justice League Dark (2017)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, But Eventually Gets Better, F/M, Fix-It, Hurt/Comfort, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, It's All About The Growth, John Constantine Wallows in Self-pity and Self-loathing, Temporary Character Death, implied happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-07
Updated: 2020-05-07
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:00:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24057877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teatin/pseuds/teatin
Summary: “Don’t think of it as goodbye. Think of it as, ‘until we meet again’.”He awakens with a gasp back in the middle of the battlefield, her warm magical aura still lingering on him. He takes a moment to savor it, a smile playing on his lips as he recalls her last words to him.Maybe, if Zatanna Zatara loves him, he’s not entirely a lost cause.Maybe, just maybe, he can become the man she always believed he could be.Or: Following Darkseid's invasion, John Constantine grieves, self-sabotages, and heals. Apokolips War fix-it.
Relationships: John Constantine/Zatanna Zatara
Comments: 14
Kudos: 51





	it's the price we pay (when it comes to love)

**Author's Note:**

> I had a lot of emotions after seeing Apokolips War, none of which were positive, so I decided to perform the most quintessential exercise in catharsis: I wrote a fix-it.
> 
> Spoilers abound for Justice League Dark: Apokolips War, obviously. The events depicted here would make little sense unless you've seen the film.

In the aftermath, he staggers aimlessly around London, or more precisely, what’s left of it, anyway. Which, frankly, isn’t a lot.

For the first time, it doesn’t feel like a triumphant homecoming. It feels like a walk of shame, and every burning house, every charred corpse he stumbles across makes him wish he was dead. Surely whatever Hell’s prepared for him would be more bearable than this.

The mere thought surprises him as soon as it crosses his mind, even more so that he means it. John Constantine has always considered himself a survivor, above all else. He had always imagined that if the end of the world were ever to come, he’d be content sitting in a bar with two pints of beer in a pocket dimension somewhere, the fate of the world be damned. Nothing is worth dying for, and it’s certainly nothing for him to feel guilty over.

Now, he’s not so certain anymore. Not after he abandoned-

His knees buckle beneath him, and he collapses to the ground, gasping for breath. He feels as if his body has been on autopilot this entire time, and his mind feels hazy, even oddly detached, not unlike a particularly bad hangover after a wild night spent drinking.

He digs his nails into the dirt, trying his best to steady himself, even as the world lurches around him. He throws up once or twice. He screams until his throat is sore.

Finally, blessedly, the smoke in his mind clears enough for him to get up and keep going. He doesn’t know where to go. He just wants to keep moving, away from all of this, even if he knows there is nowhere to turn to. Everywhere, the same destruction, the air thick with the smell of death.

He goes anyway, continuing his aimless wandering, his never-ending walk of penance.

***

At first, he considers drawing the attention of those nasty Parademons to himself and letting them tear him to bits and devour his flesh. It only seems fair, after all. Poetic justice. It’s not as if this world – that is so beyond saving – has any more use of him. It’s not as if he has anything else to live for.

But everytime these dark thoughts rear their ugly heads, they quickly vanish again. Maybe the survival instincts have been so deeply ingrained in him, and old habits die hard. Maybe he’s just a coward. He’s run away from death so many times, what’s so different about this?

Before he knows it, his feet have taken him down a familiar path to a familiar spot. A downtown pub that he recognizes even in its charred husk as one of his old haunts. _Good enough a place as any_ , he thinks. After all, drinking himself into oblivion is really the only thing he’s ever been good at.

***

He ransacks the entire top shelf in the first week, or at least what he estimates to be a week. Days and nights have become hard to track, everything blending together into unending darkness. Whether that’s due to his inebriation or the apocalypse, he can’t tell anymore. Probably a bit of both. Definitely both. He doesn’t care.

These days, alcohol is the only thing that keeps the nightmares from coming. Helps him fall into dreamless sleep. But sometimes, after he’s drifted off, he still sees images. Flashes of memories he’s tried, unsuccessfully, to drown out with booze. Sometimes, Zatanna is screaming his name as the monsters descend upon her, desperately reaching out for him. Other times, she simply stares at him with that _look_ in her eyes, full of disappointment and loathing.

(He had abandoned the woman he claimed to love so much. In the end, not even love can make him a better person. In the end, he’s still an amoral, self-serving bastard who will never change. In the end, everything he touches with his twisted, monstrous heart crumbles to dust.)

He wakes up screaming everytime, and unable to fall back asleep, spends the rest of the night drinking some more, hoping in vain that it will silence the demons in his head.

_Coward. Coward coward coward._

_The only thing you’re good at is running away. Pathetic. Even now, you cling to life, even when so many others have died. It’s true what they say, the worst ones always evade death, even if they’re the most deserving of it._

_Poor Zatanna. Poor girl. She loved you. She believed in your goodness, despite all the evidence to the contrary staring her in the face. She trusted you so blindly, and it became her downfall._

He hurls the bottle at the shelf, shattering a few others. Red wine spills from the broken pieces. To him, it looks like blood.

***

He punches Big Blue square in the face when the latter has the gall to come asking him for help, and nearly breaks his own hand in the process. Still, it’s the first bit of satisfaction he’s felt since the End.

(He’s only projecting his own guilt onto Clark Kent, he knows. He’s nothing but a punching bag. A temporary reprieve from his own self-loathing.)

“Zatanna would want you to do this,” Clark begins, and every bit of John comes undone.

“No!” he whips around, pointing an accusatory finger in Clark’s face. “You do not get to use that. You do not get to speak her name. Not after what happened.”

To his credit, Clark simply hangs his head, looking every bit prepared to take the brunt of John’s outburst, all the insults and the blame and the punches that come with it. Bloody wanker, always the bigger person. John despises it, despises him.

He’s tried heroism, and it cost him everything. He’s done.

But then the tiny girl speaks up, and her small voice cuts him to his core.

“Sure, run away again. That’s what you always do. Because you’re a coward.”

Normally, he wouldn’t pay it any mind. When you’re in the business of dealing with demons and monsters on a daily basis, you’ve heard way worse than the weak taunting of some child. But her words strike something within him, and the voices return.

_Coward. Look at that. She’s got you pegged, John Constantine._

He gasps, his feet suddenly unsteady. He braces himself against the bar, panting heavily.

_Poor Zatanna. At least she didn’t live to see you completely betray her unwavering faith. It’s bad enough that her last sight was of your cowardly retreating back as she was torn to-_

“Fuck off!” he yells at no one in particular. “Fuck off, all of you! Leave me alone!”

The only answer he gets is mocking laughter, and even more voices join the chorus.

_Aw, does the truth hurt? Doesn’t make it any less true._

_You dragged her into this life and then abandoned her to die._

_If it weren’t for you, she’d still be here._

_Constantine the Coward. Constantine the Craven._

It’s not working, he realizes. He’s playing right into their hands. He needs another way out. This self-wallowing has gone on long enough, and he’s now on the brink of losing his mind.

He squeezes his eyes shut and takes long, calming breaths. In, out. In, out. He mentally shuts the cacophony of voices out, and tries to find a tether that will center his mind.

Naturally, his thoughts drift back to her, and for the first time, he doesn’t feel regret or anger. He focuses on the way her magical aura had always soothed his mind and put him at ease. He remembers the amused twinkle in her eye the first time they met, when he tried a bad pick-up line on her and it backfired terribly, costing him his second-best suit and a bit of his dignity. He pictures the warmth of her embrace, the way she would look at him like she believed he could be so much more than he is. He recalls their banters over pints of beer, the exhilarating feeling of fighting side by side and knowing each other so intimately inside and out that every combined spell felt like a perfect dance, a union of two souls.

He remembers _her_ , as she was and will always be in his heart.

When he finally straightens up and turns to face Clark and Raven (both wearing slightly bewildered looks on their faces), the voices are gone, and he has gained a resolve he hasn’t felt in a long time. The familiarity of it all almost makes him smile.

He remembers the monkeys in Sumatra, and fondness washes over him so suddenly and palpably he almost cannot breathe.

(Funny, the way our minds come back to the most mundane things, when all is said and done.)

“I’m in,” he says.

Afterwards, as they hastily exit the pub before any more Parademons can sniff them out and attack, he hangs back behind just for a moment, and takes a deep breath. He gazes upward. The sky looms overhead menacingly, clouded and foggy, but he feels strangely at ease.

“Hey, Zee,” he whispers. “Sorry for keeping you waiting. Took a detour, got lost along the way. You know how I am. But I’m back now. I know I can’t fix everything, but what I can do, is my best.”

He smiles, his first real smile since the world ended. “Just like you always believed I could.”

***

When it happens, he supposes he’s thankful that it’s quick. He barely feels anything before he’s plunged into darkness, into the awaiting embrace of oblivion.

The next thing he knows, he’s lying on a field of daisies. The sun is shining, the birds are chirping, and his surroundings look decidedly un-apocalyptic. It’s all so cliché and ridiculous that he has to bite back a laugh. Then, fearing that this may be one of Lucifer’s sadistic pranks, he holds his breath, waiting for the illusion to dissipate and be replaced with the fiery pit of Hell, blazing with inferno and pulsating with the distant screams of a thousand sinners’ souls.

It never comes. All he feels is a gentle breeze. And then, a figure hovering over him.

“Hello, John,” the voice speaks, and right at that moment, everything seems to slow to a crawl.

How many nights has he longed to hear her voice again, despairing in the knowledge that he never will. Now she’s speaking to him, and hell, illusion or not, he never imagined she would speak to him so lovingly, so softly. Every voice he’s heard in his head since the end of the world has been reproachful and so full of hatred that he had assumed, in his darkest moments, that hers would be the same.

His eyes begin to sting, and when he finally finds his voice, it takes all of his willpower to keep it from audibly trembling. “…Zee.”

She still looks the same as he remembers. Beautiful and full of life. Unblemished. The sun behind her almost casts a halo over her head. She has never looked so beautiful, and more importantly, happy.

He reaches a hand toward her and to his surprise, she leans into his touch. It’s more real than anything he’s ever felt, and it almost brings him to tears.

He sits up and throws his arms around her, inhaling her scent. A torrent of memories flood back into his mind. Zee and him squeezed together in some tight magical closet during a particularly dicey mission, bickering while still trying to keep their voices down. Zee burying her head into his chest as they lie in bed together. Zee falling back into his arms at the House of Mystery as he promises to never let her go. She’s real. _She’s real._

“Is it really you? This is real, isn’t it? It’s not some kind of trick?”

She smiles softly in return, her gaze twinkling with exasperated fondness. It’s one of those looks she reserves for him when she’s endeared by his quirks. It’s as if nothing has changed. It’s as if no time has passed. As if none of the heartbreak, betrayals and tragedy ever happened, and they’re back in the bar that night, two wide-eyed youngsters just starting their lives, so full of hope and ambitions.

(So ignorant of what was to come.)

“Yes, John. I’m here.”

“I-I can’t believe it,” he breathes out, looking left and right at their surroundings. “How am I-”

“In Heaven?” Zatanna asks, playfully. “Well, I might’ve pulled some strings.”

Of course she did. How many times has she looked out for him, despite his countless screw-ups? How many times has she told him not to come to her for help if he refuses to listen to her advice, only to throw herself into the fray to help him anyway? He had never deserved such love, never will even if he lived to be a thousand years.

“Zee, I’m so sorry,” he says, his voice almost pleading. “I’m so sorry. I should never have left you. I know my apologies don’t mean anything now, but I-I really am. I can’t fix this, I know, but I tried to keep on fighting and-”

A finger to his lips silences him. To his surprise, Zatanna doesn’t look angry, or resentful, or even disappointed. She looks… almost sad.

“No, John,” she begins, then takes a deep breath, as if to steady herself. “It wasn’t your fault.”

He laughs, but there’s no mirth in it.

“Zee, come on now,” he says. “You and I both know you’ve always given me too much credit, but even this is-”

“No,” she repeats, more firmly this time. “I mean it. It wasn’t your fault.”

“What are you-” he begins to protest, but then she mutters an incantation, and suddenly it all makes sense.

_Rebmemer._

He remembers the way his body moved on autopilot, as if his limbs weren’t his own. Or rather, they were his own, but not in his control. He remembers the hazy cloud hanging over his head, making him nauseous. At the time, he had rationalized it as his fight-or-flight response kicking in from a life spent trying to survive. Later, he had blamed it on his own cowardice. But now all the symptoms make perfect sense.

“A compulsion spell,” he says, realization dawning on him. “But why? We could’ve gotten through it together, Zee. We’ve survived so much together. We always had each other’s backs. We could’ve beaten it. We would’ve.”

She shakes her head sadly. “The odds were stacked against us. There was no other way.”

“Bullshit!” He’s angry now. Not angry at her. Angry at the world. Angry at the Justice League. Angry at himself. “If we go down, we go down together! I would’ve died with you, Zee. I would’ve done it, gladly. I promised to be there for you-”

He breaks down, and he hates himself for it. He falls to his knees at her feet, staring at the grass. Not daring to look her in the eyes again.

“I promised.”

He flinches when she crouches down and lays a hand on his shoulder. She draws back immediately, giving him his space.

“I’m sorry, John,” she says quietly. “I really am. I suppose I did it out of selfishness. The world was imploding, and I didn’t want it to take you with it. I thought, if I can’t save the world, the least I can do is save the man I love. Can you ever forgive me?”

“There’s nothing to forgive, love,” he says, almost immediately. “You shouldn’t be apologizing for saving my life. I-I should be apologizing. I didn’t mean to blow up like that, it’s just…”

He doesn’t even want to hold back his tears anymore. He’s done it so many times over the past two years, and he’s tired. So tired. He just wants to be at peace.

“It’s just that I’ve missed you so damn much, Zee.”

“I miss you too, John. Even with all the trouble you always got me into.”

She puts her arms around him and they stay like that for… hours? An eternity? Time flows strangely in the afterlife, and he doesn’t think he cares. All that matters is that they’re together again. Even death couldn’t tear them apart, not for long.

Finally, they break away, and he feels as if a gigantic burden has been lifted off his shoulders. Aiming for levity, he gives her one of his characteristic charming smirks, and laughs when she rolls her eyes and playfully shoves him back.

“Now that we’re all caught up,” he says, standing to his feet, Zatanna following close behind, “Are there any pubs in this place? I believe we’re due for a celebratory beer.”

“Now there’s the John Constantine that I know,” she says, teasingly. “Was getting worried you’ve grown soft during my absence.”

He turns back to smile at her, and the moment seems to last forever.

But alas, all moments come to an end.

“But maybe next time,” Zatanna says. “Right now you’ve got more important things to do.”

John vaguely gestures between them. “I get to spend an eternity with you. What could be more important than this?”

She smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “I’m afraid you’re still needed, John. On the other side.”

Realization hits him like a truck of bricks, and he feels desperation gripping him like a vice, too fast for him to stop and too strong for him to fight.

“No, Zee,” he says, and immediately hates the pathetic sound of his own voice. “No, please.”

“You have to. Our friends need you.”

“I’ve done my part,” he counters, and it comes out a bit more defensive than he intends to. “I’m dead. I’m at peace. I’m with you.”

She puts her arms around his neck, drawing him closer. “You’re not meant to be here yet. Not for a while, anyway.”

“Please,” he begs. He’s never begged anyone for anything, but he’s begging her now. “I can’t lose you again. Zee, please don’t ask me. I’ve already lost you once.”

“And yet you’ve found me,” she responds. “John Constantine, you know death means nothing when destiny is at hand.”

“I can’t leave you like this,” he protests. “Not again. Not after-”

She gives him a sad smile. “I thought we’ve already established that it wasn’t your fault.”

“Yes, but-” he struggles to find the words to say. “But then I think, if I hadn’t been compelled, do you think- What if I would’ve abandoned you anyway? I like to think I wouldn’t have, but truth be told, I’m not so sure anymore.”

“John, you’re an asshole sometimes,” she says, but there’s no malice in her voice. “And there’s no curing the bastard in you. But you care about those who are close to you. Granted, it’s a very small, selective pool of maybe less than five people, but you do care. You’re also crazily stubborn. I know that if you had your way, you would have insisted on sticking with me until the bitter end.”

“Zee…”

“We will see each other again. I believe it. Do you?”

John hesitates. All his life, he’s never been a believer. Fate and destiny are for daydreamers and fools. But he trusts her, and she says it with such conviction that he can’t help but believe it.

“Yes.”

Zatanna smiles, and no matter how many times he sees it, it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever laid his eyes on.

“Now go and save the world. Make me proud. Prove that I was right about you.”

“I love you, Zee.”

He knows he has no right to say those words to her. She deserves better than his love, with all the burdens and destruction that it brings. His love has cost her her happiness, and then her life. But he wants to tell her. He wants it to be the last thing she hears from him.

She simply smiles. “I know.”

Then their lips meet in the sweetest, most gentle kiss, and he is enveloped in a warm, impossibly bright light. Before it all fades away, he hears her whispering to him.

_“Don’t think of it as goodbye. Think of it as, ‘until we meet again’.”_

He awakens with a gasp back in the middle of the battlefield, her warm magical aura still lingering on him. He takes a moment to savor it, a smile playing on his lips as he recalls her last words to him.

Maybe, if Zatanna Zatara loves him, he’s not entirely a lost cause.

Maybe, just maybe, he can become the man she always believed he could be.

Slowly, he rises to his feet, his determination renewed.

“Alright then,” he mutters to himself, cracking his knuckles. A flame bursts from his left hand. “We’re back in business.”

***

_After._

_The Reborn Earth._

The city’s nightlife is bustling.

A man in a trench coat wanders into a nightclub. He navigates through the crowd aimlessly, seemingly not looking for anyone or anything in particular.

And yet, deep inside, he feels something is missing. As if all his life, there’s been an empty space inside of him that he cannot fill, no matter how hard he tries. It’s why he got on a plane to Las Vegas in the first place. He hopes that maybe this new land will provide him with the answers he sought but could not find back in the Old World.

On stage, a singer is crooning the final notes of her song, and then the stage is set for the next gig, which looks to be some sort of magic show. He pays it little mind. In his short time in this city, he’s seen enough flashy gimmicks to be unimpressed. Instead, tired of squeezing his way through the crowd, he finds himself a place at the bar and orders some rum.

A voice booms over the mic. _“Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to introduce the magnificent Zatanna Zatara!”_

Applause rings in his ears as he turns around. A dark-haired woman saunters onto the stage, every bit of her oozing confidence. He suddenly finds that he cannot look away.

The woman bows to the audience, and as she does, she catches him staring at her. Normally he’d hastily avert his gaze and pretend to be preoccupied with something else, usually fiddling with his coat collar, but as if emboldened by her attention, he looks straight back at her. They hold their gaze for a few seconds that seem to last hours. They don’t know each other, but when their eyes meet, he feels something that he can’t quite explain.

Finally, the woman tips her top hat slightly, and starts her show.

He is mesmerized, for he recognizes it exactly as it is: Not a gimmick, but magic. True magic.

Her gig lasts nearly an hour, and he doesn’t tear his gaze away from her even once. His rum sits on the counter, completely untouched.

Finally, she finishes to raucous applause and two encores, and hops off the stage. It’s only then that he realizes he’s still staring, so he clears his throat and goes back to his rum, trying to look intensely interested in it, as if the liquor holds the answers to all the mysteries of the universe.

“My usual, please, Joe.”

He is acutely aware of her presence as she leans against the counter, a mere foot away from him. Her magical aura sweeps over him like a tidal wave, making him shudder as his heart hammers in his chest. Keeping his gaze firmly on the rum, he’s deciding whether to start a conversation when she beats him to it.

“You looked interested,” she says. “Like what you saw?”

“Yes, I must admit,” he replies, trying to play it cool. “You see, I’m something of an aficionado, myself.”

“Oh?” she cocks an eyebrow. “Of magic tricks?”

“Of _magic_.” he finally looks back at her.

If she is surprised, she doesn’t show it. “I’m sorry, I still don’t know your name.”

“Name’s John, love,” he flashes her his most charming smile. She doesn’t look impressed. “John Constantine.”

“John Constantine,” she mulls over the name, looking thoughtful. “Well, judging from that accent, you’re a long way from home, John. I’m Zatanna.”

“I know,” he says, a bit too quickly, then catches himself. “I mean, I heard the announcer introduce you.”

“What brings you to this place, John?” Zatanna asks, taking another sip of her drink.

“I’m searching for something.”

“A magical artifact? A relic of power? World domination?” she jokes.

He gives her a dry look, and she laughs.

“Alright, alright, I’m listening now.”

He shrugs. “I don’t know what it is exactly, yet.”

“That’s tough.” she observes. “Not even a little hint?”

“Afraid not.”

Their conversation falls into silence as she sips her drink and he’s determined to uncover the mysteries of rum simply by staring at it. As the seconds tick by, he becomes painfully aware that their time together is drawing to a close. Like two ships in the night, they could pass by each other once and never meet again. Something inside him is tugging at him to do anything, say anything to keep her from leaving, even just for a bit longer.

Something inside him knows that if he lets her go, he will regret it for the rest of his life. Something inside him knows that somehow, whatever he’s looking for, it has to do with her.

Zatanna finishes her drink, tosses a few coins at the bartender, and turns to John. “Well, it has been very nice talking to you, John. I hope you find whatever it is that you’re searching for.”

She turns to leave, and before he knows it, he’s calling after her. “Wait.”

She stops, turning to look at him inquiringly.

“I-uh-” he silently curses himself. It’s not like him to get tongue-tied like this, talking to a woman. But then again, she’s not just _any_ woman.

“Yes?” she inquires, a twinkle of curiosity in her eyes.

“I was wondering if you’d like to stay for another drink,” he says finally. “My treat, of course. You can tell me all about the… the trick with the top hat.”

“The top hat?” she repeats, amused.

“Yeah, and the one with the…” he trails off. “…the levitating man.”

She laughs. “I’m afraid that one’s classified. Not for _mortal_ ears to hear, you see.”

He grins at her right back. “So is that a yes?”

She makes a show of contemplating for a moment, then sidles into the barstool next to him. “Only because you’re paying, and I never turn down free drinks.”

He offers her his hand for a handshake. “So, do we have a deal? A drink in exchange for one of your trade secrets. Or, if it’s of the classified kind, one of mine for one of yours.”

She eyes his hand skeptically, but takes it anyway. “Deal.”

And in that one moment, the final missing puzzle piece falls into place, and the world, which was ever-so-slightly tilted before, rights itself.

“You’re trouble, John Constantine,” she says. “But you’re an interesting one.”

“Cheers,” he clinks his glass with hers.

“To what?”

“To the start of a beautiful friendship,” John says. “And, since I just got here, to the New World.”

“I’ll toast to that,” she nods. “May it be everything you hoped it would be.”

He smiles at her. “It already is.”

Zatanna has to clear her throat to keep the blush from threatening to creep up her cheeks.

They drink together and once the initial awkwardness has passed, the connection is almost instantaneous. They laugh and talk well into the night, like two old friends catching up after a long separation, and not strangers who met by chance.

“Goodbye, John Constantine,” she tells him afterwards, tipping her hat slightly. “It has been… an interesting night.”

“I’m sure we’ll run into each other again,” he says, perhaps a bit too hopefully. “It’d be hard to forget a face like yours.”

Zatanna laughs. “You’ve got one hell of a nerve, Constantine.”

“It’s one of my many, many charms.”

“If that’s the case, I have a feeling I’m not looking forward to discovering the rest.”

He puts one hand over his heart in mock offense. “You wound me.”

She smiles again. _“Litnu ew teem niaga.”_

With that, she disappears in a flash of light and a backwards incantation. _“Nruter emoh!”_

When the dust clears, he sees a tiny card fluttering to the ground, where she had been standing just moments before. He picks it up. The card simply says:

_ANNATAZ ARATAZ_

His fingers thrumming with magic, he touches the embossed letters, and they start glowing gold before rearranging themselves to form her name.

A calling card, tailored specifically to respond to his magic. A smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth.

He straightens up, gently runs his fingers over the letters almost reverently, and carefully pockets the card.

He starts down the streets, feeling a bounce in his steps as he goes. On the horizon, the sun is rising in the East, casting the city in a warm, soft glow. It makes him feel hopeful, somehow.

_Until we meet again._

Somewhere, the hands of destiny start ticking.

_fin_

**Author's Note:**

> There you have it! I really hope you enjoyed this, and I hope the emotional payoff was worth all the heartbreaks along the way! Please consider leaving kudos or a comment if you liked it, I'd love to hear your thoughts!


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